Retiarius
by Ismene21
Summary: A decade in the life of Finnick Odair, from the reaping of the 65th Hunger Games to the reaping of the 75th. Told in first person, present tense. Finnick/Annie and Finnick/Johanna. "I am still a little nervous about being paraded around in next to nothing, but I tell myself it is unimportant. My death belongs to the cheering crowds; why shouldn't my body?"
1. The 65th Hunger Games: Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It rains the morning of the reaping. I wake to the sound coming through my open window, and I quickly pull on shorts and a fleece. My bare feet are cold on the linoleum floor of our fishing cabin, but I don't bother with shoes as I try to slip out unnoticed. I have no such luck. I open the door to my bedroom only to see that my father is already up, sipping a mug of something hot at the small dining table. August Odair seems exhausted, a look of mourning permanently etched on his features. He nods in greeting.

"I thought you'd take the chance to sleep in," I state mildly. The fishing crews are usually up before dawn every morning, but the Reaping Day is considered something of a holiday. My father shakes his head.

"Couldn't fall back to sleep. There's coffee on the stovetop." I hesitate, eager to get down to the beach, then choose to take a mug down from the drying rack and fill it with bitter coffee. I sit on the wooden chair across from my dad, tucking my legs up under myself. I take a slow sip, wishing there was sugar in the house. The stock of baking supplies on hand has dwindled to almost nothing since my mom passed away. We sit in uncomfortable silence until—

"What's the talk at school been?" Dad asks curiously, "Has anyone said they are going to volunteer?" I have to steady my hand from shaking as I reach for my mug. For a second I thought my dad had guessed my plan. No, he was just wondering. Worried like any parent that this year there would be no volunteer. That the seventeen and eighteen year olds would decide they'd rather live to see adulthood after all. I give a noncommittal shrug.

"I heard a few kids discussing it."

"That's good, I suppose."

"How is the salmon season going?"

He sighs. "The Capitol quotas are getting harder and harder to reach. We're overfishing already. Making surplus is going to be difficult without sailing outside of District 4 waters. I expect some hard times ahead."

I nod. It's not completely unexpected, but it's still hard to hear. Under ideal conditions, the sea can provide more than enough to feed the population of 4 and fulfill the Capitol's demands. In fourteen years of living on the coastline, I haven't known true hunger. But we all know how fragile the ecosystem can be. My father, a fishing boat captain for decades, has seen more than a few seasons where the nets come up next to empty, or the fish tainted by mercury. In those situations, the Capitol shipments are priority and 4 limps along.

"I'm going down to the beach," I inform him. He nods. Every family, specifically every kid, has their own ritual for the morning of the reaping, but most choose to spend it by the ocean. We can never be sure it won't be our last chance.

"Be back by eleven. Your sister is coming over for brunch." Hearing my dismissal in those words, I stand up, take one last sip of coffee, and fly out the back door. I hurry down the crumbling asphalt path, taking the occasional steps two at a time. The walk normally takes a good five minutes—I make it to the sand in two. I toss my fleece aside as I wriggle my toes into the damp sand, enjoying the gritty sensation on my feet and the salt breeze on my face. The rain turns the sea such an incredible color, and although it is a little cold and a little impractical, I head down to the water's edge immediately. The water laps at my ankles, cold as ice. I wade in at a snail's pace, my thoughts serious. This afternoon, hundreds of children between the ages of twelve and eighteen will assemble in the main square for this absurd annual event. The steps are always the same. Septimus Fletcher, our ever-smiling escort, plays the Capitol propaganda reel and then pulls a girl's name. The girl barely reaches the stage before volunteers are asked for, and an 18 year old usually steps forward. Followed by the boys. This same thing every year. Some years, the good years, a tribute returns to us. In a way, it is a comfort to come from a Career district. It is a comfort to know that the weakest among us should never have to fear the arena.

Now up to my waist, I steel myself and dive underneath the upcoming wave. I swim out further past the breaking waves where my feet no longer touch. I float on my back, feeling the waves lift my body, the raindrops splash around me, occasionally getting saltwater into my eyes and throat but never minding. I am a fish. I could stay here forever and never mind it. I could find my peace away from the training, the Capitol's propaganda, the peacekeepers' heavy handed justice, and the Games. What would my life be like without the Games? I've spent most of my free time training. A lot of us have, if our families can spare the labor. The last several years of my life have been spent learning how to handle weapons, survive in the wilderness, and wipe out a target. This work is supplemented by the athleticism it takes to swim out far in the ocean, to spear fish and hold my breath for minutes, to weave and untie knots. Practical skills. But really, when it comes down to it, how much of that matters in the arena? No one but the gamemakers knows the location ahead of time. I've seen so many young people die on the television screen, seen how random and unfair the end results can be. The solemn truth is we are being raised for the entertainment value our deaths will bring. And recently I've found I don't want to continue.

I try to ignore this fact. I am a part of the sea today.

Before long, other figures appear on the shoreline. Tristan Angler and his younger sister Emma, Myla Rothstein who is in my class at school, Annie Cresta, tall for her age. This is Annie's first time in the drawing, and Tristan's last.

"Finnick!" Tristan shouts out to me, laughter in his tone. "You're going to freeze."

"Come on in! The water's fine," I reply. He takes it as a challenge—as I hoped he might, and runs full force into the waves. He is waist deep before the cold really hits him. He curses, and half runs half stumbles back to shore.

"That's enough to wake anyone up," he grins. The girls are more cautious, letting the smallest waves creep over their toes.

"No one can catch me!" I claim—shouting over the crashing waves, jumping up and over to keep my balance. Annie smiles slowly, I can read her lips as she states that she can.

Tristan, Emma, and Myla cheer us on alternately as she steps steadily into the surf, the waves buffeting her frame. I turn my attention quickly back to the bay and move out further, attempting to evade her. She's almost into the calm now. I'm treading water, waiting now, seeing if she'll really come out this far. But as I scan back towards the shore, I realize I've lost sight of Annie. I worry for a brief moment—was she knocked under?

A splash to my right pulls me out of my thoughts. It's just Annie. She's crept up on me. The twelve year old girl stares at me, her eyes and forehead her only feature out of the waves. I splash her and she swims away. A game of chase begins, too sweet and lighthearted for a day such as this. The cold water saps our energy, and before too long we return to shore. The others have split off, joining others from school just now arriving. Annie and I settle onto the sand, watching the waves through the mist. Nothing is said, and my secret rests heavily on the tip of my tongue. I cannot help it when I finally whisper my resolve in her ear.

"I'm going to volunteer today."

* * *

As promised, I am back up at the house by eleven, helping dice strawberries for brunch. Mags will be by shortly with her fresh baked seaweed bread, and so will Jemma with her husband Isaac, Nell, and Reyna. My dad anxiously checks on the casserole, wanting the family recipe to be perfect just for today. I remember this tradition stretching back to when it was Jemma in the reaping, not me. Back when my mom was still around.

Mags is practically family now. Everyone in the community knows her. Our oldest victor, one of the few who remember the rebellion. When my mom got sick, she was invaluable to our family. Making meals, keeping up the house. District 4 has no hospital, so when mom was at her worst, Jemma and I stayed the night at Mags' huge Victor's house on the peninsula.

When everyone arrives, we waste no time in digging into the food in front of us. Tuna casserole with cheese, strawberries and fresh cream, and fresh baked bread. A veritable feast compared to my dad's and my usual fare. My nieces are already in their nice clothes for the afternoon: matching sky blue sun dresses. Seated around the table, I notice my brother-in-law is conspicuously missing. When I go to ask about Isaac, Jemma stops me with a jerk of her head. Whatever it is, she doesn't want Nell and Reyna to hear. Of all the days to find trouble…My attention is drawn back when the conversation turns to the Games.

"You're going to the Capitol this year, Mags?" My dad asks.

"Yes, August. I promised Harry I'd go in his place this year."

"Understandable. How is he?"

"Overjoyed. I saw him holding his newborn last week. I've never seen the man look so at peace."

Before Jemma and the girls leave, I pull her to the side. I know something isn't right.

"Peacekeepers," she tells me. "He didn't tell me what sort of trouble he was caught up in this time. There was only the knock on the door and he left with them."

"I'm sure it's nothing. He'll be in the square this afternoon, you'll see. He has you and the twins to think of, he wouldn't do anything rash." I suddenly feel guilty. All of this insecurity, and I am planning on stepping away from it all without warning. But it isn't the same. I am not responsible for anyone. In fact, I am the burden in my household. What I plan isn't criminal, unlike whatever Isaac has gotten himself into.

* * *

Only a few short hours later, the town is assembled in the main plaza. It's raining harder now, and huge puddles form in the courtyard not built for drainage. The boys are grouped together on the right, the girls on the left. I am uncomfortable in dress slacks and a button down shirt, with stiff shoes. On the steps of the justice building, a hastily-erected canopy keeps the equipment and officials dry. The jars of names, irrelevant for so many years running, are there as well. Still menacing. The propaganda reel plays on a large screen, but I know I am not the only one paying it no attention.

I am fourteen. I should stand here comfortable in the knowledge that the 18 year olds volunteer. They always do. They have the best chance of winning for our district, of returning alive, not packed into some wooden box. Instead I can hear my blood pounding in my skull as I try to remember my decision. I am about to change my life.

The same man as always, short, unnatural arching eyebrows and burgundy hair, our very own Septimus Fletcher, pulls the names.

"Ladies first…Myla Rothstein." My classmate. 15 years old, her father works at the packing plant. Too bony, too frail. She stumbles onto the raised platform in front of the justice building and waits for the expected.

"Do we have a volunteer?" Septimus asks, his voice magnified by the little microphone under the canopy.

"I volunteer as tribute." The voice belongs to Molly Amberwood. A heavyset and determined 18 year old, ready for her last opportunity to join the games. She is not beautiful, but she is fit. If she can make alliances quick and think fast in the arena, she will stand a fair chance. Not like Myla. Now Septimus Fletcher will pull a boy's name. Despite myself, I feel sweat start to bead along my brow.

"Dillan Gross." I don't know this one. The boy walks steadily to the stage. Septimus Fletcher doesn't even finish asking for volunteers before I step forward.

"I volunteer as tribute."

There is silence. I feel the intensity of hundreds of stares as everyone's attention turns to me. I don't look at Mags as I walk steadily towards the stage.

"Everyone give a big cheer for our volunteers from District 4… Molly Amberwood and Finnick Odair!" There is a smattering of applause. Molly is cheered on especially by her friends. I know the cameras are rolling, so I try my best to find an expression that conveys determination, and makes me look older than I am.

We are whisked away into the justice building. I sit in a small office, waiting for the visit from my family members. I tap my foot against the bench, excitement and anxiety all rolled into one. I leap to my feet when the peacekeeper opens the door and ushers my family inside.

My father's embrace seems stiff and formal. I breathe in the scent of wood smoke and seawater that clings to his clothes.

"Make us proud," Is all he says, and then stands off to the side as my sister and nieces swarm around me.

"You are strong. Brave. If you can manage to get hold of a trident or even a spear— play to your strengths, Finnick. You are very likeable. Make them love you and you'll get all sorts of sponsors," Jemma advised. Whispered words of advice, tears dampening the fabric of my shirt collar. My sister, grown up, a family of her own to care for. Could I count on her to take care of our father into his old age if I don't come back?

I get on my knees to hug Nell and Reyna, my twin nieces. They are 6 years old, just starting school, still several years away from being entered into the drawing themselves. I face the fact that in all likelihood I will never see their faces again. I will probably never see any of the friendly faces from my village again; Tristan, my best friend, Emory, the foreman at the shipyard, Annie, the girl who would never leave the ocean if she could.

"Mom says you'll be on TV, Uncle Finnick," Nell tells me.

"Yeah, I suppose she's right." I give a half-hearted smile.

"You're going to the Capitol?" asks Reyna with awe.

"I am. When I return I'll tell you all about it." I promise them both. Jemma just shakes her head sadly.

"I don't really want to know why you did it. Just try and come back, okay."

"I didn't volunteer so I could lose."

Another round of hugs, and the four of them leave as quickly as they came. I am surprised when the door is opened again, and Tristan enters the office.

"You are a dead man, Finnick Odair."

"I'll miss you too," I reply sarcastically. Tristan Angler is 18 years old, a wiry athlete and fellow career. I realize as he appears in the doorway of the Justice Building's room that he had planned to volunteer today. I very well could have saved his life.

"Why did you do it?"

"No one needs me," I mutter quietly. "Besides, I'm bored of training. Maybe I want to see what the Capitol looks like. Maybe I think I can win."

"You're 14. Just a kid. I don't think anyone that young has ever won."

"Then I'll be the first." He looks at me with a pained expression. It's funny. I never realized how close Tristan and I had become until this final goodbye.

"You'd better be," he laughed hollowly, "You've stolen my chance at glory, after all." And we embraced. Clumsily at first, then closer. My life for his, and I hadn't even realized it.

I feel numb as Molly and I are lead to the Capitol's bullet train waiting on the platform. I know that before too long I'll have to face Mags and start preparing for the arena. For now I breathe in the smell of eucalyptus and sea breeze that is 4, and say one last mental goodbye.


	2. The 65th Hunger Games: Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The train's interior leaves me speechless. Everything looks so expensive, so extravagant. There is a buffet table laden with pastries and hors d' oeuvres. Crystal water glasses, polished wood, carpeting. I feel as if I just walked into the president's mansion. I glance over at Molly. She is equally stunned. Val and Mags allow us to hover on the threshold for a moment before we remember ourselves and sink into the loveseat across the car.

"It's been a trying afternoon," Val says kindly, "Take some time to wind down. We'll talk strategy this evening."

"I would recommend helping yourself to the cakes and a glass of hot chocolate. There's never been a better time to give into your sweet tooth," Mags advises. I have a grandmother as a mentor, I think to myself. Is that good or bad?

When our mentors leave us alone, Molly and I don't really speak. I cross to the table of food and beverages and take a champagne flute. I've never had champagne before—it is bubbly and warming, but the taste is only tolerable. I keep sipping the glass as I stare out of the window at the scenery passing by. The valley used to be farmland—full of orchards and fields of tomatoes. It's just desert now, and most food is grown in 11. I notice Molly hasn't moved since she sat down.

"What are you thinking?" I break the silence.

"I'm picturing my mom and dad. I don't want to forget a single detail of their faces."

"Oh." More silence, then she asks me the same question.

"I'm thinking about food. Where it comes from and so on."

"Mhmmm."

I decide I like Molly Amberwood. She is strong, but not cruel. The kids who train, myself included, are more often than not very unkind. We give other schoolchildren hell, and no one intervenes. We are special, the hope of the district. We represent the chance at a year of package days, at more recognition from the Capitol. It goes to our heads, I suppose. But Molly, 18 years old and serious, is better than that. A little voice in my head reminds me that, even in the best case scenario, only one of us can return.

* * *

That evening in the dining car, I quickly reassess my judgement of Mags. I have known her in the context of friend and caretaker, not her role in the games. I wonder how many kids she has mentored only to watch them die. But she is very good at her job. Tributes from 4 make it home as victors every few years under her guidance. Even Val, Molly Amberwood's mentor, worked with Mags on her games, 15 years ago.

That evening, she is far from grandmotherly towards me.

"I need to know why you did it," She asks directly.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you volunteer this year?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes. If this is some elaborate suicide, I need to know not to waste any resources on you."

It stings. I know she is being pragmatic, but hearing someone I consider family tell me plainly they wouldn't help me if I wished for death is unpleasant.

"You don't have to worry about that, Mags. I volunteered to win." It is the first time I say it and mean it. I'm not afraid of death, but that doesn't mean I want to die. What I really want is change. Perhaps a glimpse of glory.

"Good. That is the attitude you need to have. You need to want to win more than anything else in the arena. More than fighting with honor, more than protecting innocents. You have to believe your own life is worth more than 23 others."

I have never heard Mags talk like this. It's good sense, of course, but chilling. In order to have my mentor's help in the arena, I have to be serious about winning—in order to win, I have to be ruthless. But I nod, and continue, "So what should my strategy be?"

"What is your best weapon?"

"Trident," I answer automatically. I catch Mags trying not to roll her eyes.

"There is almost no chance of a trident being at the cornucopia, boy. What is your second best weapon?"

I almost reply harpoon, just to see her react, but I decide against it. "I'm fairly good at close contact weapons. A sword or spear would work."

"When you are at training, practice with those. The Capitol made weapons will feel different in your hands. Show off enough to attract alliances, but not so much to become a target. Normally 4 has no trouble joining the Career pack, but with your age you might have more difficulty."

"Okay, I can do that," I reply, trying to hide any nerves. "What else?"

"I need to find out a way to sell you to the sponsors."

It isn't a question, so I keep quiet as she scrutinizes me. I feel like I'm trying to pass some examination.

"You will not be the strongest or most agile contender. Your age may work for or against you," she sighs. "But you are a handsome boy. I can use that."

"Excuse me?"

"The goal of the next few days, and even in the arena itself, is to make the crowd love you. Win the crowds in the Capitol and you win the game."

* * *

I can't sleep. I know I should—I know I need to rest. Tomorrow morning we arrive in the Capitol, and I need to make the right impression. I run my hands over the cool fabric of this bed, so different from my quilt at home. It is hard to think that this morning I woke up in my own bed, this morning I played in the waves with Tristan and Annie and Emma and Myla. It isn't all bad though. I am excited above all else. Tomorrow I'll wake up in a different world. I'll be the center of attention and everyone in Panem will know my name. So I roll over and try to get some sleep.

* * *

Before I know it, Septimus Fletcher is rapping on my door, his accented voice telling me to get up and ready for a very big day. I don't bother to shower—my prep team will only make me do it again—and head straight to the dining car. I skip over the coffee in favor of hot chocolate. This kind is different that the calcium supplemented powder we use back in 4. It's so thick you could rest a spoon on its surface, so rich you almost need water to wash it down. It's delicious. I pile my plate with rolls and cured meats as Fletcher, Mags, and Val tell us the day's schedule.

"We'll go straight to the training center upon arrival. Our apartments are on the fourth floor. There you will meet with your prep team. Once both of you are polished, you will break for lunch with your stylists."

"Be friendly," Mags warns, "You want your stylist on your side."

"How can a stylist not be on a tributes side?" Molly interjects.

"Believe me. It's happened," Val assures.

"Tonight is the opening ceremonies," Fletcher continues. "You two are certain to make a splash!" The pun is grating, but no one comments on it. We are pulling into the station.

The windows of the train reveal a stunning, glittering metropolis. Skyscrapers and colorful glass spires and fountains. And the crowds—exotic, an other-worldly beauty. The Capitol citizens wave and shout with excitement as our train passes by. I catch sight of a woman with purple skin, a man with dreadlocks that twist and move as if they are snakes. I grin at the sight. From here looking down on the crowd, they seem like animals in a menagerie.

Septimus Fletcher sees to it that the five of us make it to the Training Center without any delay. We take the elevator up to the fourth floor suite, where we are met by the two prep teams. Val and Molly split off with their team, while my team introduces themselves.

Julia is short, with spiky black hair. Her skin is covered in tattoos, and her voice is high pitched. Cassius is tall with dark skin and white hair. Lucan is so pale, he seems translucent. I am reluctant to trust this odd combination, but with a reassuring nod from Mags, I allow myself to be led away by the trio.

My nails are trimmed, my brows are shaped, and my bronze hair is cut. The Capitol viewers prefer the competitors to be clean-shaven, so even though I've never grown more than peach fuzz they apply a salve to temporarily prevent facial hair. It stings, but I know better than to complain. Afterwards I am given a white robe to wear—I do not know what happened to my dress clothes from yesterday. They must have been thrown out.

It is time to meet my stylist. Sabina Moyer is a reoccurring figure in the Games. She has been working with District 4 tributes for many years, always capitalizing on some ocean theme. The woman is my height, curvy, with long lacquered nails. Her hair is shaved short on the sides, with tumbling honey blonde curls on top. Her lips match her nails: bright, attention grabbing red. Sabina is a burst of energy, and greets me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, a proximity I am not comfortable with.

"So you are my Finnick," she announces breathily. "Why don't we order some lunch and I can discuss my designs for tonight with you."

We sit at the dining table in the main space of the apartment. I taste the pumpkin soup Sabina ordered for me—it is delicious. She spreads her portfolio out in front of us. I glance at the sketches. Her idea is beautiful, but I am suddenly embarrassed. Is this what I will be wearing through the city circle?

"Mags assured me you would be alright with this. It fits with your strategy so well, doesn't it? It's sexy and mysterious."

Sexy? I'm fourteen. I hide my misgivings and decide to go along with what Sabina and Mags have planned. Anything to give me a leg up over the competition.

* * *

The horses must be extremely well-trained. Even with all of the colors and commotion in this stable area, the twenty four animals are perfectly calm. The same cannot be said for the twenty four teens and their assortment stylists. The tributes stick to their chariots, talking only to their district partners if at all. The stylists are busy fussing and perfecting hairstyles, accessories, and hemlines as they talk and call out to one another. I glance over at Molly. She is in a flowy pantsuit with a plunging neckline. Little sequins that look like fish scales are sewn into the fabric. The costume is pretty enough, but it doesn't suit her in the slightest. She gives me a wry smile.

"That looks terrifying," she comments.

"I think that's what they were going for." I say with a small laugh.

"Not what I meant. How long did that take to apply?"

I have spent the last several hours sitting perfectly still as my prep team glued individual scales onto my legs and torso. The shimmery scales crawl up my legs, wrap artistically around my pelvis, covering what only what is necessary. Tendrils stretch around my torso, the silvery flakes look unreal. I am a mer-creature of legend, ethereal and dangerous. I am still a little nervous about being paraded around in next to nothing, but I tell myself it is unimportant. My death belongs to the cheering crowds; why shouldn't my body?

I never get around to answering Molly's question. We are given the signal to stand ready in our chariots, and then we are off.

The crowd is unbelievable. Chanting and yelling for their favorites, tossing flowers onto the roadway. I smile and wink at the crowds, trying to come off as personable yet powerful, young and beautiful. I catch an image of myself projected on a screen and for a moment I can't look away. I look at myself looking at myself as the crowds chant my name, "Finnick! Finnick!" I feel as if I am not truly present, as if it is someone else going through these motions. Afterwards, Mags, Val, Septimus and Sabina reassure me, telling me how captivating I was, what I wonderful job I did. I believe them. The chariot ride is the easy part, after all. Tomorrow we head to the training stations, and the real work begins.

_A/N: Thank you for reading! This is as much as I have written and edited so far. I'm not used to writing in sequential order, but I'll try to have Chapter 3 posted within a week. _


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